If only I were younger. If only I were more bored and more blonde. If only I didn't have this damnable compulsion to make sure my controllers match not only each other, but the system I am playing on. Perhaps then I could be one of the bored blonde gaming teenagers.

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I need not play with them; indeed, that would almost be blasphemous. I would be a clumsy oaf, stumbling about their whitewashed world, leaving fingerprints on the pristine furniture, fingers not fit to grasp either the wired white GameCube controllers lovingly clasped in the soft hands of woman, nor whatever wireless solution gripped intently by the male aspect of this nouveau holy trinity.

I look around at my off-white walls and sub-par lighting and feel the urge to spit. Curse their brilliant majesty for leaving my mouth dry in awe.

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If I cannot be a human presence in that incandescent utopia, then cast me as the portal into whatever virtual world has captivated them so. Make my screen flat and sharp and glare-free, so that their eyes never stray from my flickering light. Awash in disinterested reverie, I will delight in the delusion that it is I that hold their gazes. It is I that they mildly tolerate. At the height of his boredom let the brother roll his eyes in my direction.